The lines of silence stretch at my feet - the hands I hold, the faces I greet, and the world seems an ugly place unenlightened, not neat, and as I walk out of my small house each day I thole it, say nothing of grief, of walking, the walking feet who stay with you part of the way, then leave, they never teach you that - that life is a river flowing and it never re-touches the banks that it meets.next poem